For Want of a Shirt
by LJ9
Summary: The triplets subject Hiccup to a bit of their mischief.


**Disclaimer:** The characters herein belong to Disney-Pixar, Dreamworks, and Cressida Cowell, not yours truly.

Also, elfpen came up with this idea and the title, so I don't even have that going for me.

* * *

At least they'd left his leg alone.

He should have suspected. After the Thorston twins made it through their infancy, a theory began circulating around Berk that multiple-birth siblings only shared one functioning brain among themselves. Though he knew it was physically impossible, he was nearly willing to believe it in Tuff and Ruff's case. But they were _special_, and the young princes had seemed so normal, especially with their mother's influence. Truth be told he'd all but forgotten about them, so consumed was he with his studies. Perfecting Gaelic took a lot of work, for both him and Fishlegs; they spent their days with their tutors poring over books (he'd never seen so many of them before, and Fishlegs had let out a whimper the first time they walked into DunBroch's library), scratching at parchment, and working through labyrinthine grammatical puzzles. None of the other Hooligans, save maybe Gothi, would understand that spending your days thinking could feel just as draining as spending them fighting.

So in the exhilaration and subsequent exhaustion brought on by learning, he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. After only a few days in the castle he felt comfortable and complacent, going from their room to the hall for meals and then the library, seeing mainly Legs and their teachers, a pair of old men only distinguishable from each other by their facial hair. Despite their age both scholars were still quick of eye and ear; no errors went uncorrected, and they had seemingly infinite patience when it came to listening to their students repeat words until they got just the right pronunciation. Of course he saw the royal family at dinner, but that was from another table, and though the princes were a bit rambunctious, he never considered it anything to worry about.

He wasn't sure if Astrid would be laughing at him or lecturing him right now. He'd let his guard down, and they'd taken advantage of it in spectacular fashion.

Alright, he conceded, looking down at the cloth clutched around his waist, definitely not spectacular. Certainly potentially humiliating, though.

They were sneaky little buggers, he'd give them that. Of course, he'd helped them by nearly falling asleep in the warm bath, though he'd only meant to give his eyes a brief rest; even when they were closed, dark curving letters undulated across his vision. He'd ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and willed himself to see something else, to give him some respite from the words. In response his brain had changed the inky uncials into the spirals of the princess' hair, and he hadn't been able to keep from smiling. As weird as it would have sounded had he ever admitted it aloud, her hair was fascinating. So was the rest of her—her personality, that was, not her…her. She was like a Viking woman with a few of the rougher edges filed down. She was strong, just as strong as her parents were, but unashamed of her emotions. Maybe before they left he'd get a chance to spend some time with her. It would be a good opportunity to practice his speaking, and perhaps a way to strengthen diplomatic ties. _And to see that hair closer up_, an obnoxious part of him had suggested.

When he'd felt his toes wrinkling he'd opened his eyes to grab the towel and climb out. His leg still rested against the stool, but the fluffy towel that had been there was gone; he sat up further to lean over the side of the tub, in case the towel had fallen to the floor, but it was nowhere to be seen. Nor were his clothes. His stomach sank as he looked around the room, hoping that perhaps he'd forgotten where he left his things; in fact there was not a scrap of familiar fabric left in the room, nothing but a length of tartan in the lattice of black, purple and green that was everywhere in the castle. He'd closed his eyes again and sighed, suddenly certain that he knew what had become of his clothes. Only someone who meant mischief would have sneaked in to take his things; a servant would have knocked, announced their presence and asked permission. This wasn't a chore, it was a raid.

Once out of the tub and relimbed he'd rubbed the plaid over his soaking form before wrapping himself hastily in the fabric; it was long enough to cover everything important and lash around his waist with an end still free to toss over one shoulder and tuck in at the small of his back. The bare skin of his arms and sides prickled in the cool air—there were many things he appreciated about the castle, but its stone walls trapped the cold in a way that made the construction unfeasible to implement on Berk—and he moved quietly to the door, pulling it open and peeking around the frame.

From the far end of the hall he caught a giggle, swiftly shushed, and a flash of red hair. (_Why aren't you interested in __**their**__ hair?_ the voice in his head asked smugly. _Because they're evil little spawn of Loki_, he thought in a grumble.) He checked that the coast was clear before he darted toward them. If they were anything like the twins, all he had to do was catch one and trick it into telling him where his clothes were.

As he listened for their footsteps in the hall he realized that this would be nothing like cornering Tuffnut back on Berk and confusing him into blurting out the information he needed. These boys knew the castle and all of its hiding places. Even now he was passing through hallways he hadn't seen yet. And he had a nasty suspicion that the princes were much smarter than the twins.

If he hadn't been so worried about being seen, he would have enjoyed the tour. But he was uncomfortable in the foreign getup, and worried that at any second the skirt would snag on something and he'd be completely exposed. That was not the impression he was trying to create here. He was hoping that when they left the Scots would remember him as clever, dedicated, rational Hiccup, a man you could rely on, a Viking you could reason with. Not Hiccup, the lad who'd been tricked into tearing around the castle with his cheeks bare for all to see.

Oh, gods. The very thought had him clapping a hand to his seat, only faintly reassured by the wool against his palm.

There was another giggle, this one ringing out unstifled, and he glared, picking up speed as he rounded a corner, muttering, "That's it, you little—oof."

The solid bulk he collided with could only belong to one person, one of the last people he wanted to see right now. The king took a look at him and sighed. "Boooys!" he bellowed down the hall, where the only response was more laughter; though he shook his head, there was a slight smile on his lips, fondness breaking through the resignation. "I'd help you chase them down, lad, only…" He shrugged and waved the stack of letters in his hand, looking like he'd gladly trade places with Hiccup. He gave Hiccup's shoulder a heavy pat and skirted around him, heading down the hall. As he hurried down the hall, Hiccup couldn't blame the king for his sons' behavior or his inability to help; he just wanted his clothes back.

Every time he thought he'd lost them, there was a flash of red hair ahead. The triplets, or at least a fraction of them, led him up and down stairs and hallways, through shuttered, dusty rooms and across a courtyard, into the busy kitchen where scullery maids nudged each other, whispering as he passed, and he blushed horribly red. Finally they were upstairs again and there was a slam of a door at the end of the hall. There seemed to be nowhere else for them to run, which meant that they were almost certainly not behind that door, but he couldn't lose them, so he rushed forward and burst through the door.

* * *

And to think that just moments ago she'd been silently lamenting how deadly dull her lessons were today.

When Mum had told them that they'd be hosting foreign visitors, she'd had high hopes. Yes, there was the chance that they'd be as unappealing as her suitors, but they would at least be new. The daily routine in the castle grew tiresome, and anything that would relieve that tedium was more than welcome. Though Mum had warned her that the visitors would be busy with their own studies, improving their Gaelic before learning about the politics and history of the Highlands, Merida had been sure that they would have time to talk with her. But the two young men had been formally introduced to the court when they arrived, and she saw them in the great hall of an evening, and that was the extent of their interaction. Not that she didn't wish for more; she wanted to know about where they'd come from and their journey to DunBroch, and above all she yearned to hear the story of how the keen-eyed one had lost his leg. But between their poxy lessons and hers, it seemed she'd never get the chance. She dropped her chin onto one hand and sighed.

Just when she'd all but lost hope, the lesson seeming to stretch out until the end of time before her, the door to the study banged open. Though she expected it was just the boys she still jumped, and even Mum flinched at the noise.

It was not her brothers at the door, though. It was instead a flushed and wet-haired Viking, dressed only in an inexpertly-wrapped kilt—not at all his usual dress. As she gaped, and he took in the scene before him, her on one side of the table and her mother on the other, books and maps spread between them, his flush only heightened. The righteous vibration that shook him started to calm, and he shrunk into himself, his hands moving from fists at his sides to clench in the fabric around his waist. "Um," he said.

"Good day, Hiccup. Can we help you?" Mum asked, enunciating perfectly as usual.

Merida thought she'd worked out what he wanted. "The boys aren't here, if that's what you're looking for," she offered. His eyes swung to her, head cocked slightly, and she remembered that he was there in part to improve his Gaelic. She was ready to repeat the statement, but even from a distance she saw comprehension of her words register in his eyes.

"They have my clothes," he said, adding, "I think." She chewed on her lip, trying to hide a smirk; she only reacted that way because of her brothers' antics, glad that they weren't aimed at her and that they hadn't done anything worse to him. And she decided she liked his accent, though it was a bit strange. She'd like to hear it more, the way it rose and fell like waves, transforming the familiar words.

"Oh, that. Yes. It's washing day," the queen explained. "I asked the boys to fetch your things and to make sure you were suitably attired until your clothes were done. I see they decided not to relay this information to you."

"Mum," the princess laughed, catching his hesitant smile out of the corner of her eye, "why didn't you send a maid instead?"

She raised one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "In hindsight I suppose I should have done, but I caught the boys passing by and thought they knew well enough to treat a visitor with more hospitality. I beg your pardon for the inconvenience."

"Uh…that's alright."

Her mum shot her the briefest of glances before returning her attention to their guest. "Hiccup, since you're here, would you like to join Merida's lesson? I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

Her curls bounced as she shook her head. Still he asked, "Are you sure?" In response she leapt from her seat and dragged another chair next to hers. He looked from her mother's patient expression to her undoubtedly eager one to the open books, and he smiled slowly and stepped forward.

* * *

"Where'd you get the kilt?" Fishlegs asked as they made their way to dinner.

He looked down at it, now properly pleated and securely belted, with a laced shirt beneath it. "Don't ask," he said, smiling slightly. "It's actually pretty comfortable, though."

When the meal was finished he watched as Merida leaned over to her parents and asked something before leaving the head table. The meat pie felt heavy in his stomach as she approached where the two Hooligans sat.

"Would you like to take a walk?" she asked, nervous hands running over her skirt, a formal veneer barely concealing her excitement. His throat was suddenly dry, and all he could do was nod. She waited as he clambered up from the bench and then led him out of the hall into the twilight, walking perhaps a half-step closer than necessary.

* * *

When the pair had left the hall, Elinor delivered the first payment, a tray of iced buns, to her agents, giving the trio a conspiratorial wink.


End file.
